


Borrowed Time (The Only Thing to Do Remix)

by CaitN



Category: NCIS
Genre: Angst, Blood, Community: remix_redux, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, remix madness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:05:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitN/pseuds/CaitN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McGee was not supposed to be the one bleeding out on the bullpen floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Borrowed Time (The Only Thing to Do Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bibliothekara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliothekara/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Lullaby](https://archiveofourown.org/works/153151) by [bibliothekara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliothekara/pseuds/bibliothekara). 



Special Agent Timothy McGee woke up with a Coldplay song running around in his head. Had to be something that was playing at the bar last night – his musical tastes ran more towards Coltrane and Botti.

He brushed his teeth and wondered if he had enough time to swing by Starbucks on his way to the office. Pick up a latte for himself and maybe a cream cheese danish for Ziva. Something sweet to go with the “coffee, black” that she preferred. 

He glanced at his watch. If he hit the lights just right, he might even be able to swing a Caf-Pow for Abby.

*****

“If it isn’t McNugget,” Tony announced cheerfully as Tim stepped out of the elevator. He juggled a drink holder in one hand, Abby’s Caf-Pow in the other. Ziva’s pastry bag dangled precariously between pinkie and ring finger.

Tim ignored his co-worker and headed for his desk. He deposited his coffee and the Caf-Pow (he’d deliver it in a minute), and booted up his computer. 

“I see that your new book is number nine on the New York Times Bestseller list,” Ziva said. “Congratulations, Tim.”

“Please, don’t encourage him.” Tony came around his desk, then perched on the edge of it. “Have you even read it yet?”

“Not yet, but I am certain that it is just as well-written as the last two,” she said diplomatically.

“Thank you, Ziva,” Tim said with a smile. He picked up her coffee and pasty, and went to give them to her. “I got you something—“

Unfortunately he didn’t see Tony’s feet sticking out, and he stumbled, dropping the cheese danish and spilling coffee all over the desk. 

Ziva jumped up and began moving things out of the path of the running black liquid. 

“Crap!” Tim dropped the cup. “I’m so sorry!”

“That’s okay.”

Gibbs came from around the corner. “Get it cleaned up,” he ordered.

“Got it, boss. I’ll go get some paper towels.”

Tim moved off, heading quickly for the men’s restroom. The elevator doors opened in front of him and bullets started flying.

*****

He was not supposed to be the one bleeding out on the bullpen floor, Tim thought. He was dimly aware of Ziva next to him, one hand on a makeshift bandage pressed to his stomach.

This was not how the universe worked. It just wasn't. And if-and when they got out of this, Tim and the universe Were Going To Have Words.

He was supposed to come through unscathed. Bathed in the luck that (in Tony's words) protected small children, drunks, and geeks. He was supposed to be scared but brave. Ready to hack the mainframe, knock out the power, do something.

He was definitely not supposed to be half-conscious, head lying on Ziva's lap, trembling with pain.

They sheltered behind one overturned desk, Tony and Gibbs behind the other. At least that’s where they had been right after he’d gotten shot. Tony had looked shaken, but unharmed; boss had obviously gone straight into Gunny-mode. 

A wave of pain ripped through his body and just before he lost consciousness, he could see Ziva trying to wordlessly convey "one bullet to the gut, no exit wound, going into shock" as best she could.

Why couldn’t she speak? Because any loud sound would convey their position, to the...terrorists? Gang members? Who knew. To the men who had decided this day to attack his office...his friends. No, not friends, family. The place he spent more time at than the apartment he returned to each day.

Ziva’s grip tightened on his hand. He knew, even without looking, that she wanted to hurt these men. She wanted to kill them. It was her nature to fight, not hide and he knew she wanted to be anywhere but here, babysitting him. He didn’t begrudge her that. Hell, he’d feel the same way in her shoes.

He wondered if Abby and Ducky and Palmer were all right, or if they were already...

Better to not finish that thought.

He fought his way back to consciousness, opening his eyes slowly, the light blinding. Ziva looked down and smiled grimly, trying to reassure him.

Tim opened his mouth. Was going to ask for something, not sure what. Water? Status report? Keeping one hand on the pressure bandage, Ziva shifted so that the other hand could cover his mouth. As gently as she could, she shushed whatever he had been about to say.

He squeezed his eyes shut again, trying very hard not to allow the pain to overtake him.

Ziva leaned over and kissed his forehead. Her lips were like ice; he must have a fever. Tim tried not to allow visions of infection to spiral in his mind.

Gentle and soothing did not come easy to Ziva. She had to work at it. But he was grateful for her presence, grateful he wasn’t alone.

He sensed her sitting back, and then felt her fingers stroke his hair. She started crooning, very very quietly. Something in Israeli. A lullaby? 

He wondered if this was what it felt like to be dying. He wondered if he’d ever get to see Abby again. Tell her that he still loved her, that a part of him always would.

Who would take care of Jethro? Abby would be the logical choice, but her landlord wouldn’t let her have pets. Maybe Ziva. He thought they would get along well, once they each learned the rules. 

He wanted to open his mouth and ask her, but he couldn’t find the energy. Her hand in his hair, and the soft words of her song were so relaxing.

He must have moaned, made some type of sound, because her hand covered his mouth again. Whispering in his ear. “Rest, Tim. Help will be here soon.” 

And he heard the frustration in her voice though she tried to hide it. Tried to soothe him as best she knew how.

Amidst the chaos, as they waited for rescue or death, or both, that was all she could do. And as Tim spiraled toward oblivion, before darkness sucked him in again, he gathered the energy to murmur, “Thank you.”


End file.
